Pressing in When it Feels Impossible (Part Two)

So that night, I knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed where my little man slept, and I offered God my son’s life. I knew He understood the pain of a parent letting go of their child. And I wrapped myself up in that knowledge. . .

When I left for the mission field, I said I was willing to give everything.

I meant it.

But this wasn’t my life. This tiny eight-weeks-out-of-the-womb life was more precious than my own.

Even as I let go, I knew God was powerful enough to heal. I’d seen Him do it before. I knew the name of Jesus Christ was enough.

I also knew that God’s ability to do something does not constitute a guarantee that He will do that thing. Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego said as they faced the fiery furnace, “We know our God is able to deliver us, but even if He doesn’t, we will still not bow down.”

I stood at the mouth of a different furnace altogether. In the depth of my loneliness, I chose to believe that God was present. My emotions, my sleep deprivation, Fear—all of those were loud in my head.

But they were liars.

So I prayed, “I know You can heal him. Please do it. But even if you choose not to, I’ll trust You.” As each word stumbled out into the fearsome silence, I believed more. I said it again, my convictions setting up like concrete.

If my newborn didn’t make it through the next few days, of course I would mourn. I would sob until I was hollow. But grief would not cripple me. Eventually, I would go on. My husband and my other two children could count on me.

Because I could count on God.

As much as I had found peace in God’s promises that night, I also made peace with myself.

At dawn, I woke, surprised that both of us had slept so long, so soundly. Too soundly?

Anxiety pricked my heart. I sat up and pulled back the curtain letting in just enough light to see the little man’s chest rising and falling.

His color was back.

I slipped out of bed and knelt beside him once more.

My son shifted on the bed in front of me. Opening his eye, he found me watching him.

And he actually smiled.

I reached for him, careful with his tender little body, but for the first time in weeks, he snuggled in. Still grinning. Cooing.

He smiled all day.

We took a taxi to the airport to meet our family. My parents had flown in from America. Boyfriend-Who-is-My-Husband and the kids arrived from Poland. Everyone had come to say goodbye.

I was beginning to believe they wouldn’t have to.

Test after test provided no answers. The freckling of bright red lesions didn’t disappear, but no new ones developed. The ashy gray skin never made a comeback. No more seizures. And always, the snuggling and smiles.

Stymied, the team of physicians in Budapest released our son. Other than the rash, which would scar deeply but clear up over time, there was no evidence that our son was sick.

The internet connection came back up at the guest house later that week.

I had over 2000 emails from people I’d never met, all over the world, praying for Short Son.

Let me allow you a moment to take that in.

Two. Thousand.

Our God is able to do exceedingly, abundantly more than we could ask or imagine, right?

In the eternal scheme of things, I’m His child. He’s my Abba. One day, for those who follow Him, there will be no more suffering. No more pain and tears. That’s more than any of us deserve.

But what about here on earth?

I chose to share this story because I love to declare what the Lord has done for me.

But please don’t forget what happened at the mouth of the furnace.

God didn’t have to heal Short Son.

I have dozens of stories about other furnaces, different trials. I’m sure you’ve got your own stockpile. The Lord allows us to suffer. He does not always heal or always deliver from pain and mistreatment. From abandonment. From abuse. From slavery.

A day is coming when those things will be no more, but it’s not here yet.

Sometimes, mercifully, He does deliver us here on earth. So of course, this is one of my favorite testimonies to share.

But believers ought to tell the other stories, too. Because even when we’re pressed on every side, we’re not crushed. We’re persecuted, but not abandoned. Struck down, but not destroyed.

I just read this….having missed it somehow in the holiday crush.But thanks for sharing so beautifully those days of weeping, praying and rejoicing. Just love to see your thoughts “pour out on paper”.Thanking the Lord always for you and for that precious little wiggle worm! Mom